


In The Dark, We Move

by verovex



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: AU, But Conversations Surrounding It, F/M, Jim Doesn’t Have the Appropriate Eyewear, No Descriptive Scenes Of Wartime Conflict, Survivor Guilt, To Protect Him from the Ray of Badass Sunshine That Is Lee Thompkins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-08 06:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12858849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verovex/pseuds/verovex
Summary: While on deployment, Jim meets Lee, before the events of Gotham. After losing a slew of company men, she helps pull him out of the hole he built for himself.





	In The Dark, We Move

**Author's Note:**

> Lee has been an absolute _favourite_ of mine since she showed up in Arkham. I needed to feature her more prominently in _something_ I’ve written, even if it is rather short.

There’s an ephemeral eagerness that comes with entering a war zone, although for most it came from simply wearing the uniform. Before complacency settles in, there’s a boundless need to serve the country you were born into. It took most members a handful of years, but excitement tends to fade when faced with a lack of conflict around the world.

Even after several years in, Jim had remained a sobering reminder to his peers who chose not to take their jobs seriously. It was a characteristic that proved to be the bane of most of their lives, he’d been called the _Ironman,_ or _the youngest Sergeant from Hell_. It stroked Jim’s ego more than hindered him. He didn’t need to be liked, he needed them to be ready.

He didn’t care if they enjoyed the ten kilometre runs every morning, or if his circuits made them puke. They _signed_  up for this, they took an oath. He was just there to ensure his country had _soldiers_  for when they needed them. His men were eternally grateful to be prepared for when that day came.

Because it did.

The moment their boots hit the ground, it was not like anything they’d trained for. No amount of simulators, or running around with blanks on exercise could indicate how their next six months would go.

They were dropped into a middle of a gun fight, despite being told they were cleared for landing. Their mission changed from _‘being a presence_ ’ to ‘ _destroy the enemy_ ’, quicker than Jim had time to wrap his head around. His commanding officer in his ear, yelling at him to _move_. Everything moved on autopilot, rifle perched from his shoulder, company moving on his cue. Attack drills they had done a thousand times, perfectly executed.

Their first night in, they were called _heroes_  by townsfolk who had hated the infiltration of soldiers on their land. Their first week they moved in synchronization across the most battered towns, doing infinitely more good than anyone who had tried before. Their first month, they had already reclaimed nearly an entire province’s worth of land from the rebel militia. Their second month in, they’d acquired enough Prisoners Of War to bargain a trade for their own lost men.

On their third month, Jim noticed a woman who’d arrived overnight at the encampment, with a Red Cross patch on her left arm. She wore a smile that brightened up the moods of the most sullen soldiers, as if nothing in the world could bring her down. He felt something like love at first sight, or perhaps it had been because she was the _only_  sight. In the following weeks she gave a lightness to the compound, one Jim took a liking to, one he wanted to be around.

The grass looked greener, the instant coffee tasted less like shit, the rations were more bearable. Jim hadn’t even had a single interaction with her, but she was an impeccable distraction.

It was in the Standing Orders that anyone on deployment was forbidden from drinking, but it didn’t stop alcohol from being illegally purchased from the locals. Most officers did a half-decent job with inspections. They were able to find it before it could do irreparable damage, but there was one night they’d gone lax in their responsibilities.

It didn’t take long for the mess to overflow with a belligerent nature, from unsavoury comments to being downright rude, perhaps no one had taken an onus to call it a night because it’d been three months of treachery, and they wanted one night to indulge.

_Major_  Leslie Thompkins (Jim didn’t want to admit he’d successfully obtained her rank and name from stalking the medical shelter while pretending to be chewing tobacco with a medical technician) watched from the officer’s section of the mess. She was the only woman there, and Jim had wished he’d spent more time instilling even a modicum of dignity in his men. She would be quick to prove she didn’t really need him to teach his men how to properly act.

The men started to form a circle, pushing aside tables and chairs, setting up their own version of a ring underneath flickering daisy-chained overhead lighting. It was all up to board, officers greenlighting non-commissioned member’s aggressive coping technique with a signal of a thumb in the air.

Jim didn’t care to drink, taking up a perch from one of the discarded benches. Two of his Privates entered first (because of course it had to be Knowles and Anderson, from _his_ company), fists in the air, smirks of bravado shared between the two, and shouts of, ‘ _let’s go,’_ echoing around the tent.

Eventually when it seemed like everyone in the battalion was either bloodied or bandaged, a calm settled around them, and then an almost simultaneous eruption of laughter. Jim swelled with pride, even if they weren’t all _his_  people, if they wore a uniform, they were family.

As the doctor patched up one last Corporal, the group started to filter out, to head back to their respective cots around the camp. As she finished, turning to place the used gauze and cotton balls on a piece of paper towel, the man hooked an arm around her waist. 

Jim had taken to moving the chairs and tables back with another one of the only sober men there, pausing in their clean-up as they heard a loud _‘hey_ ’, turning just in time to witness Leslie yank the man’s arm back, and up behind his back, shoving him face first into the bench. As he struggled, she pulled his arm up at a likely _excruciating_ angle.

She gave a sideways glare towards Jim and the Private, who stood bug-eyed, frozen with a table in the air between them.

”Is this one of _yours?”_ Leslie called, the man trying to turn to see whose wrath he’d have to endure, she pulled to raise his wrist in response. “I didn’t say I was letting you go yet.”

The man grunted in response, Jim visibly gulped. “No, m’am.”

”See to it his commanding officer properly reprimands him for his insubordination.” The doctor pulled the man up by his collar with her free hand, speaking clear next to his ear, “have you learned your lesson, or would you like me to _un-_ set your shoulder?”

The Corporal shook his head from side to side, she relinquished her grip on him, the man scrambling to his feet and running at a comical-slanted angle out of the tent.

”I’m sorry that he ruined your evening, m’am.” Jim added politely, once he and the Private had moved another table. 

“Life’s too short to be thrown off that easily.” Leslie crossed the threshold towards him, helping them move several chairs, until the labour was done. She shot Jim a sly smile, as she gave him a once-over. “You’re the stalker.” Jim stared back at her, briefly slack-jawed. “I mean, when you were outside the med tent—“

”I _know_  when you meant.” Jim sputtered over his words, cheeks flushing. “I wasn’t—I have a _friend_  over there.”

”The one who walked away in the middle of you pretending to talk to him, while you stared at my chest when I passed by?”

Jim gawked, he felt caught in a Venus trap, tied down by his limbs with no way out, he’d been checking for her _name,_ no amount of excuses could repair—

“My name’s Lee, by the way. You could have just asked.” 

“I—m’am— _Lee_ , if we could start over.”

”I’ve grown fond of this beginning though. Sergeant...?” She posed it as a question, giving him a window to offer his name, but sirens started to blare, interrupting their flow. The lights immediately changing to red across the camp. The dynamic shifted between them, both alert, and scathingly aware the camp was at a peak level of vulnerability.

Yet, the flight-or-fight response kicks in anyway, men pulling on their full fighting order in double time, rushing to their posts. Jim at the helm of their battalion’s Quick Reaction Force, him and his six other men corralled around the command tent within minutes. The brief leaves an adrenalized haze over Jim’s unit, ‘ _annihilate’_ being the main task verb they hear. They’re meant to interject the enemy before they breach their area of responsibility, but intel doesn’t know how many there are. They’ll likely need to scout ahead first, gauge the threat, and come back once everyone is dead.

They’re out in a flash, the mission needing to be completed by witching hour.

If there was one thing they’d always been taught, it had been that war never _stopped._ If one your guy’s die, you keep moving until the mission is done. There’s no ‘ _stop to see if he’s alive_ ’, it’s either you keep shooting, or you stop and  _you_  die. It’s something they don’t properly teach in movies, it’s something people don’t fully understand.

In order to survive, you’re embued with the knowledge of how to build a wall, between your compassion and your actions. Any second wasted is one where you are most exposed, and Jim watched as five of his men fell around him due to an ambush, before the calvary arrived to prevent more casualties.

Then there’s the moment, where your heartbeat slows, once everything around you is quiet—because everything up to that point had been _so_ loud, from the gun shots, being bombarded with artillery strikes, to helicopters whirling above, to the flying shells from rocket launchers, it was like nothing could ever be _silent_  again.

But it is, when you least expect it, when Jim’s being forced down by his shoulders into a guerny, not even realizing he’d been shot in the thigh. He’s in and out while they’re pumping him with morphine. Everything is likely to stop _spinning_ eventually. The high he feels will come to a crashing halt— _it always does_ —and by then he’ll only be feeling pain.

Once he’s bandaged up, restrained against the makeshift hospital cot, Lee’s small flashlight running past his half-lidded eyes, Jim realizes things are quiet. This is when he’s _allowed_  to mourn, when there is no threat anymore. He’s alive, but his men aren’t, and it was okay before, but it’s not now. He feels the sting of tears, but that’s not how a soldier responds. You’re meant to carry on, your men wouldn’t want you to weep for them, they would want you to honour them, _memorialize_  them.

Jim takes a breath, just like he’s taught. Counts the seconds to several minutes, listens to the way he breathes, focuses on nothing else. Doesn’t hear when Lee speaks to him, doesn’t notice when his Commanding Officer comes to check on him, can’t fathom that night is quickly turning into dawn, because all he sees are Knowles and Anderson, less than six hours prior, _laughing_ , fighting, to the new reality of Knowles being shot in the head, and Anderson being obliterated by an IED.

How did it all get _so_  fucked up?

_No crying Jim,_   _that’s not what you learned. You’re a leader. They see you break, they break._ Jim bites through the emotional turmoil that is sure to follow, knowing the upcoming days will be his most trying. 

His leg is an easy fix, bullet having grazed his thigh and cleared straight through. He’ll still be sent home, but he’s allowed to remain at the compound for another week, to do a proper handover with the next Sergeant coming in. There are talks of Jim becoming the youngest Warrant in history for his actions and bravery.

That doesn’t sit well with Jim, it doesn’t seem right. Why should he be rewarded with a promotion for losing his men?

It’s four days after the incident that Jim’s Captain forces him to talk to _someone._  He’s been isolated in his tent, been told to see the Padre, but Jim’s hasn’t felt a pull to religion since he was a child. He’s given the order to speak with someone, which is how he finds himself reluctantly situated across from Lee, a pad and paper in her hand, stone-faced with a hint of a smile when Jim finally takes a seat.

They’re circling the subject, tiptoeing around it as if it’s not the reason he’s there—talking about how he’s _feeling_ (‘ _Just peachy, m’am_.’), about where home is (‘ _Gotham, m’am_.), about if he’s excited to see his family (‘ _Only an estranged Uncle, m’am_.‘), what does he have planned (‘ _I think it’s time to retire, m’am_.), and then how he’s  _recuperating—_

_“_ Can we just skip to the part where you tell me how I get a green check mark that I’m cleared of any mental health issues?” Jim blurts out in the middle of Lee’s questioning, before adjusting his sharp tone to a softer one, adding, “respectfully, m’am.”

”Where’s the fun in skipping to the end? Maybe I was using this as an opportunity to get to know you.” Lee replied, a click against the end of her pen, as she took to writing in green ink on the sheet. “Tell me about that night.”

”What specifically do you want to know?”

”That’s up to you.” Lee twisted the pen between her fingers and she waited for Jim to find the words to begin.

”We got ambushed from the right flank,” Jim started, almost instantly relapsing into the memory, feeling like he’d been wading through the thick forestry again, combat books soaked to the brim, the threat of trench foot only overshadowed by how they all felt _wet_  and frozen to the bone. Jim could hear the shot off to his right, whizzing by him, immediately recoiling in his chair as Lee made her observations. Jim’s eyes slid shut.

He could smell the swamp off to their left, could hear the shouts of his men, could see the outline of Knowles face down on the ground. Anderson is pulling him by his arm, as a bullet narrowly misses him. They both crash to the ground in prone, Jim making an analysis of _how_  many there were, running through his estimate like he was _trained_ , but it’s not the same. Nothing’s the same when you’re staring down the barrel of a rifle, because Jim _took_  too long.

”I should’ve died.” Jim recalled, rolling his thumb over the knuckles of his other hand. “Anderson saved me, shot the guy that snuck up on me. Then he got up, started running, and I heard the _click_ , but we couldn’t have done anything. He just _exploded._ ”

Jim thinks about the blood, _the blood._ How it didn’t matter how many showers he took, the splatter felt _stained_  to him. It was his call to make, he should’ve moved on instinct, should’ve retreated, but it had all happened so fast, and he didn’t react appropriately. By the time he realized five were dead, his radio man being one of them, he _froze_  entirely. He didn’t know why, didn’t understand why his legs wouldn’t move. Maybe that was when he’d been shot, it was all still a blur—the sounds and sights, the flicker of fire from rounds bursting out of rifles, the kickback of his own against his shoulder, the taste of copper in his mouth. It hadn’t been the first time— _or the last—_ that the memories ripped through him, leaving an unbridled, curdling agony in his chest.

Yet, Lee _smiled_  that warm way she always did, the same way she’d looked when she first showed up at the compound, as if all of this had left her unaffected. These were men she’d come to know as well, even though Jim had a longer experience with them, how could she be so casual?

”I’ve been on six deployments. The few I saved make it worth every loss.” Lee answered Jim’s internal question. “There is no green check mark to say you’ll ever be okay. It’s on you to decide how this goes, I can’t make that decision for you. I’ve watched the souls leave soldier’s bodies more than I wish I have, there’s nothing to prepare you for that, and no amount of aide-memoire’s can tell you how to react. Every day is going to be a new battle, but you don’t have to go about it alone.”

There was no option to turn back the clock. Jim understood that, albeit as a concept for that moment.

”What do you intend to do when you release?” Lee’s wanting to curve the subject, feeling as if her words had their intended effect.

”Be a cop,” Jim shrugged, he hadn’t really thought of it extensively, had regressed to childish dreams. “I want to work in homicide, at least I did when I was a kid. I wanted to help people.”

Lee made a sound of acknowledgment, pressing him to talk about his aim, what he hoped to _achieve_. Being a cop was different than being a military man, even if the risks were all the same. The military lifestyle surrounds itself around your team, the people you work for, and work with. There is rarely any interaction with a civilian population, you answer to superiors with respect, and you bond with your company like family.

It’s why so many have difficulty _leaving_  and starting civilian careers, because you’re not taught the importance of civilian life, you’re taught how to act, respond, and exist in a military context. Jumping to a life where you draw a path, one that’s not already predetermined for you isn’t a simple as it sounds. It’s like navigating a terrain you have no business being on. Helping people from a military standpoint meant killing folks, being a cop meant helping the average Joe, or the teen that lost their way. Working homicide meant helping families find closure.

It was a life Jim should’ve started earlier.

”You’re never too late in finding the right route.” Lee moved the pad and pen to the surgical table next to her. “Take this as a trial run, you know what you want now, and you can use this as an experience to understand the pain of others. Don’t let this hinder you from becoming a cop, I believe you can do great things. Gotham needs more light on its streets.”

Jim’s brows furrowed, it wasn’t every day someone recognized the tribulations that rocked through his home. The world regularly ignored Gotham, it was the problem child that no one had a solution for, _so_  it seemed more suitable to ignore it.

”I was born there too.” Lee confirmed, ever vigilante towards Jim’s expressions. Was he always that easy to read? “I always think I’m going to go back. Eventually work in a mental ward, or something to that extent.”

”Why not just continue working as a surgeon?”

”There’s something about the complexities of the human psyche I feel more of a drive to understand,” Lee placed a finger to her lips, wondering if Jim would think of himself as a test patient to her future career aspirations. “Everyone has a story. Colour me naive, but I tend to give people benefit of the doubt, even if they are deviants.”

”Sounds like you should be the one working as a cop.”

Lee chuckled, “that suits you more.” She turned to lean over the bench, scrawling her signature at the base of the paper. “I believe you have a fair bit to work through, but nothing that can’t be helped with patience and placing a value on your own life, and that you’ve been given a gift to continue on.”

Jim looked at the sheet being presented to him, Lee’s outstretched arm in front of him, urging him to take it. “Are you sure?”

”Willing to bet my life on it, James Gordon.” Lee nodded, “in time, you’ll let go, never entirely, but you will overcome this.”

”Thank you, Lee.” Jim pulled the paper into his hands, cradling it. “I think you have a knack for this.”

”Yes, I think I might. I hope I’ve helped you, since you’ve actually helped me decide what I want to do after my tour is finished.” Lee laughed lightly, Jim again basking in how soothing it sounded.

“Maybe when you’re back in Gotham, we can grab a drink?” Jim sounds more nervous than he usually would. “To talk more without the background noise of gunfire and all.”

”I’d like that.”

* * *

It’s months later, after running through the application process for the GCPD that he receives the call.

Signing on another dotted line an oath to serve and protect.

It was exactly as Lee described, every day proved to be a different challenge, but Jim felt like being in Gotham made it easier, as his _home._  Where he was most comfortable.

The whole town was rampant with varying degrees of terror, and there was a pull to find a way to cure it from disease. He didn’t know what that meant yet, but every day he ran through the same mantra. It was about taking one day at a time. About being critical of the decisions you make, that the decision to let fear and guilt run your life only serves to ruin you, while acknowledging your faults and mistakes only strengthens you.

He started to believe this life was given to him for a purpose, even if the guilt of _surviving_ while others had not, stayed in the back of his mind.

Jim pulled out his recently acquired cell phone, the chime echoing loudly around his empty apartment.

_’Congratulations!’_  Lee’s message read, with a slew of emojis— _emoticons?_  ‘ _Drinks on me, I’ll be back in ten days to celebrate.’_

Jim smiled.

This life was just fine.


End file.
